2001: A Space Odyssey

Stargazers, Navelgazers

The search for an answer makes a monkey of us all.

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“Twentieth-century art may start with nothing, but it flourishes
by virtue of its belief in itself, in the possibility of control over what
seems essentially uncontrollable, in the coherence of the inchoate, and
in its ability to create its own values.”

T. S. Eliot

To torture a cliché, 2001: A
Space Odyssey is an exploration of the Human Condition—or,
more appropriately, as I intend to argue, the Human Predisposition.
It is, at its simplest, a road-trip movie. But there is no intended
destination or conceivable measure of success: like gap-year students
parading aimlessly around South-East Asia, everything is concerned with
the journey itself. Kubrick’s characters are in pursuit of themselves—their
own purpose and meaning, as individuals and as part of the collective.
Bound up with all this is the concept of wisdom—perhaps even Enlightenment.

2001 demonstrates a “world” dominated by a species
that has sacrificed wisdom for knowledge. Despite fantastical
delusions of grandeur, science remains a primitive drive to understanding.
Paradoxically enough, “science” is presented as “ignorance,” the
pursuit of question-less answers.

We assume that the elusive “truth” is concealed somewhere
in the darkness of space. Its vastness reminds us of how little we know,
and how little we are destined ever to know. No matter how high-tech or
self-assured we become, we remain transient and fragile in comparison to
the infinity of space. By evoking the sublime, Kubrick forever
reminds us of mankind’s limitations. The act of searching is futile
because we do not (and perhaps never can) understand what
it is we are looking for.

This is why Kubrick places such great thematic emphasis on the concept
of immaturity. We see it in the laborious movements of the spacecraft;
we see it in the clumsy footsteps of the flight-hostess and in the inexperience
of Bowman (floating food, space-toilets, and so on). The station interiors
are startlingly white, a color connotative of innocence and placed in
direct contrast to the omniscient blackness of space. And of course, innocence underpins 2001’s
most poignant image: the embryonic “Starchild,” which stands
for humanity’s relative youth and downplays the script’s enormous
traversal of time.

Also Sprach Zarathustra

The film’s opening minutes are occupied by a blank screen—literally
nothing. After a sizable wait, we are introduced to a sunrise, a traditional
signifier of new beginnings (indeed, “the Dawn of Man”). The
emptiness of the introduction alludes to the relative brevity of Mankind.
Infinity is, after all, a very, very long time, and the Universe
has done a great deal of existing before we arrived on the scene.
The celebrated cut between the bone and the spaceship is a temporal manipulation
that augments this idea, belittling the plight of 70,000 years or more,
and concisely affirming that all our progress is but an attempt to dominate
a “nature” whose meaning or purpose we may never understand.

The “Dawn of Man” sequence shows the ascent of Man to the
top of the food chain. At first, Kubrick establishes Man as a herbivore,
poking and stirring unyielding dust for nourishment. They form an egalitarian
society with a group of boars; scattered about them are the bones of the
starved, simultaneously a symbol of imminent death and, ironically, the
means of Man’s salvation. To make matters worse, Man is prey to wild
beasts. The cheetah keeps watch from a rocky peak, an elevation that connotes
its position in the food chain; after Man’s eventual triumph, the
cheetah is absent from this platform.

Enter the Monolith

The Monolith appears three times in the film, each time preceding a technological
and narrative advancement. It is an enigmatic object—that is for
certain—but, further to that, it symbolises enigma itself.
The human need for explanation is what drives discovery and progression.
The Monolith is the objectification of this need, and the characters who
share screen-space with it are drawn instinctively to it.

The film plays upon this fact, in effect tricking the audience
into complicity. The image is never explained yet we seek endlessly to
explain it—it is, must be, the missing piece to the puzzle. There a deliberate
lack of artistic subtlety. The monolith is ostensibly “placed”
and modern audiences expect such arrangements to be, in some way, meaningful.
The characters’ misplaced faith in the “laws” of science
is paralleled by the moviegoers’ misplaced faith in “laws” of
the cinema. This device is particularly important in understanding the
ending of 2001.

Yet the Monolith is not a creation of transient man. A popular interpretation
is that it indicates extra-terrestrial life. I disagree, for within the
diegesis of this film there is little to support the notion of
alien intervention. The attribution is more likely to God, or, if you don’t
lean that way, to Mother Nature. In the context of the Monolith’s
first appearance, it is a quirk of evolution. Then again, you would not
be mistaken to consider either God or Mother Nature as precisely an extra-terrestrial
life, whose alien intervention both religion and science posit as the starting
point for all life on this planet (and only this planet, so far as we know).
The film allows us to choose our preferred metaphor; it doesn’t actually
matter what we call it: the story is the same.

Indeed, the dimensions of the Monolith resemble those of a door, as though
the characters path is being dictated. Kubrick, however, never casts doubt
upon his characters’ self-determination or free-will. Linking the
ages, the Monolith is perhaps presented as a sturdy, constant constituent
of the human condition—something that speaks to the human spirit
and distinguishes us from our fellow creatures in the animal kingdom.

Monkey Business

The monkeys’ engagement with this enigma (or rather, their engagement with
enigma) instigates the first technological leap: the formation of
a tool that irreversibly alters their circumstances. It
is their inquisitiveness, on all levels, that initiates the change.

Worth pondering is that their curiosity leads to tool-building,
and that their tools are immediately put to use as weapons of violence
and domination. From Heraclitus’ declaration
that “war is the father of all things” to McLuhan’s
insight that “war is nothing but rapid technological change,” the
theme is at least consistent throughout recorded history. From longbows
at Agincourt to stealth bombers over Baghdad, man’s use of tools
nearly always results in the haves taking military advantage over the
have-nots.

Interestingly, the cut that links “past” and “future” draws
attention to the similarity of the airborne objects: they are both bone-shaped.
They are both death. Despite all the “advancement” achieved
between the images, humans are still the same. We’re just not as
hairy. After all, we still measure our hours, days, weeks, and years according
to the movements of big rocks in an unfathomable abyss. We still barter
with pebbles, and members of our societies still kill for them. The Stone
Age never really ended,
no matter how you dress us up.

It’s almost as if that jubilant bone, the first step of the journey,
just kept floating away. Later in the film the exploratory spacecraft,
aptly named Discovery, is forever lost. Discovery alone can
only take us so far; discovery alone is blind and aimless. Despite verbal
assurances to the contrary, the mise-en-scene continues to depict
human control as an illusion—and its tools as fallible.

So yes, the bone and the ship are both tools. Our tools elevate
our potential for achievement—they are science solidified. But
although
we can possess and use them, we don’t actually hold their power ourselves—it
doesn’t belong to us. Regardless of “how far” we
have come, merely remove the tool and we are again nothing more than impotent
herbivorous monkeys. How much effort it takes to survive in space!
How bulky and awkward is the equipment sustaining us minute to minute!
Pathetic!

2001 therefore abolishes the notion of progression and advancement.
These are empty terms, symptomatic of Man’s desire to impose order
on chaos. Delusional, aren’t we? Or, as Henry David Thoreau put
it, “all our advancements are but improved means to unimproved ends.”

As Bowman probes the most distant boundaries of conceivable achievement,
he hits a threshold. HAL personifies the science/ignorance conflict.
His character parallels Man’s arrogance, placing absolute and obstinate
faith in both his abilities and in empirical science. He is, of course,
an obstacle in the literal sense—he stands between the crew and their “objective”;
more importantly, however, he is an obstacle in the allegorical sense
that this element of human nature must be circumvented if we are to ever
achieve enlightenment. Indeed, as HAL’s memory-core is shut
down, he is left babbling like an infant. His was knowledge unsupported
by wisdom; his was knowledge unearned.

Despite these failings, HAL can be considered the facilitatory tool:
the space-bone. Without HAL, the astronauts seem naked, alone.
Man’s use of science entirely supports its endeavor, and without
these: nothing. Herein lies a warning. Knowledge may seem to speed
up man’s Great Journey, but there is no substitute for understanding or wisdom.
This is most audibly articulated by HAL’s termination of
the dormant crew. The tool must belong, it cannot be borrowed.

And Beyond

Having overcome HAL (and unencumbered, then, by a mindless preoccupation
with advancement), Bowman is confronted by the Monolith. The experience
is followed by man’s journey “beyond the infinite”, by
far the film’s (perhaps any film’s) most contested segment.

Before thinking about what we actually see from this point on, let us
think about the language: “Beyond the infinite.”
Within the discourse of the film, the infinite is all-encompassing—the
mighty unsurpassable. It is everything we have ever known, and more than
we can ever hope to know. It is the sublime; to transcend
the “infinite” is to exist outside of existence itself.

The phraseology here compliments an increasingly nihilistic discourse
within the film, a theme that is later picked up in Toy
Story by Buzz Lightyear,
who wishes to go “to
infinity and beyond!” So 2001 refutes the very notion
of progress or advancement;
these terms imply a discernable beginning and end. It would suggest that
there is an ultimate technological “goal”—that individual “future” inventions
and discoveries are inevitable, waiting merely for the light of day. Kubrick,
through the symbolism of the flying bone (in its various guises), likens
the monkeys at the “Dawn of Man” to the human characters across
the universe. There is equality throughout the ages.

If the infinite is endless and beginning-less, in
order for the film to reach any conclusion we have to step “beyond.” Is
Bowman dead? Well, in terms of plot, yes: unequivocally. He is lost in
space, with no means of rescue and with no oxygen. He has been reduced
to his base, powerless state; he is an impotent monkey. But to read the
film’s climax in such a literal way would be a disservice to this
ultimate trip, this allegorical fable of the species that made and continues
to be enthralled by the film.

Formless form

Form, here, matches content. If science is a futile attempt to impose “order
on chaos,” then we see this futility mirrored in our attempts to
impose narrative convention.

We naturally try to make sense of the pretty colors in the same way we
do any other piece of imagery. We continue to seek the “key” because
as human beings we want to compartmentalise our experience—reduce
its enormity, render it safe. Exposed to the full electromagnetic spectrum,
we prefer to see only the seven colors of Roy G Biv; it is a necessity
for survival. The film wishes us, despite our biological limitations, to
see more than that.

Despite our tremendous experience as spectators, we lack the means to
understand this sequence in the same way that Bowman’s tremendous
experience as scientist leaves him ill-equipped to understand the complexities
of the universe. We simply lack the tools.

Kubrick, then, is operating on the symbolic level alone. The cinematic
norms of causality, time, and space do not apply, and any attempt
to apply them will simply confuse matters further.

Bowman appears to be incarcerated. The props and dressing are familiar
objects, but seem distinctively artificial; this effect is, in part, produced
by the awkward juxtaposition of the room and the preceding flight—not
to mention the complete lack of context. Now captive, he is unable to aimlessly
progress. He is forced to muse. Perhaps understanding is as likely
to occur in a banal environment as it is inside a laboratory, or in a space-craft.

We witness the character observing his own rapid aging, emphasizing his
fragility, brevity, and transcendent state of mind. His countenance now
provides a satisfactory contrast with the core theme of innocence.
Keir Dullea’s acting also suggests his character is approaching wisdom;
he pauses for thought as a wine glass shatters on the ground—presented
by Kubrick as a symbol of the frailty not only of life but of Man’s
delusions.

The etched-crystal is a stand-in for civilization as a whole, for its
relative trivialities: our social mythology, structures, and metanarratives
are but a flimsy abstraction at best, splintered by the slightest waver. Closer
scrutiny consolidates such a reading: the set is filled with marble statues
and Renaissance paintings—references to that great zenith
of civilization. Our hero is trapped by these, claustrophobic—it
is as if a blinkered outlook has isolated man from the vast expanses beyond.
Indeed, the stylized white lighting again draws attention to itself. Mankind
cannot see beyond its misplaced priorities or its arrogance.

Contrast the set with those psychedelic landscapes on Bowman’s
approach. And compare the set floor with the building as a whole: it is
like a house built on sand, a stubborn denial.

On his deathbed, Bowman raises an accusing finger at the monolith, indicating
his realization of the folly of humankind. He has achieved
the understanding that has eluded his ilk. The monolith resembles a door—an
exit; he passes though, becoming the “Starchild.”

Nirvana on the rocks, with a twist

Whereas some have described this as the realisation of enlightenment,
perhaps in the Buddhist sense, it must be remembered that Buddhist
enlightenment marks the end of reincarnation. In the novel by Arthur C.
Clarke, this is precisely the implication: the Starchild gazes toward earth,
and with a conscious act of his will, detonates every nuclear device on
the planet. By human choice, as opposed to some judgment of God (such as
Noah’s flood), mankind forces his own evolution into the realm of
pure spirit. It is water from the sky or fire from the earth, a nice reversal
of the traditional.

While Clarke saw this annihilation as perhaps the ultimate
form of human progress and purification, you can imagine why this scene
never made it into a film released in 1968. There are shades of the idea
in Agent Smith’s speech to Morpheus in The Matrix when he
says “you humans are a plague, and we [A.I.] are the cure.” If
nothing else, the Starchild is a symbol of man’s relative youth and
innocence and a reminder of the ancestral (or cyclic) accumulation of
knowledge.

One imagines that Clarke was raised on T. S. Eliot’s poetry,
for the Starchild is nothing if not the cinematic confirmation that “we
shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will
be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” At
the conclusion of Charlie Kaufman’s Adaptation, Meryl Streep’s
character ends her tragedy by whimpering: “I want to be a baby.” It
is perhaps part of the meaning of Jesus’ saying, “you
must be born again.”

Alternatively, you could say that the spectator is confronted with humanity
stripped to its essence—a warmer image than that of cold science
and its blind march. An embryonic miracle, a miracle repeated generation
after generation. A most rudimentary thing, the beauty of which science
and technology can never hope to imitate, let alone match. As G. K. Chesterton
put it, “It is only when a child is born that we can truly say there
is something new in the world.”

Floating happily and mysteriously in orbit, eyes wide open with wonder,
the Starchild reminds us of the need to sit back and appreciate the incomprehensible
for what it is. :::

.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address) is currently reading Film at the University of
London’s Birkbeck College. He works as a Therapy Radiographer at
Guy’s St. Thomas’ Hospital. Interests include art and literature,
film-making, and gastronomy.